#travel

He Is Never Going to Say It’s Okay

Posted on by row20blog

Last week, we traveled to Kansas City and Chicago to see some baseball and visit family. On Day Three of the trip, the plan was to catch a day game, then fly from KC to Chicago.

At the game, his third in as many days, my son had a meltdown that may or may not have been nationally televised. I took him out of the seats to a spot where he could “get in a calm body.” (That is what I said, because no matter how much I might have thought it, telling an exhausted four-year-old to get his shit together so I can watch the baseball game would have been very poor parenting.)

We were just starting to get in our calm bodies when I received an expletive-laced text from my husband. It seems he’d gotten a text alert from the airline that our flight was scheduled to leave in 90 minutes. Odd, since it was 2:30pm and the flight he booked departed at 7:30pm.

He came flying out of the stands, most definitely not in his calm body, and the three of us rushed out to our rental car. Actually, rental car is a misnomer here. It was more of a rental behemoth. This thing was a beast, a fact that will soon become relevant. I drove the getaway tank while my husband tried to figure out what was going on with our flight.

As it turned out, the airline canceled our 7:30 pm flight and rebooked us on a 4:00 pm flight. When my husband inquired as to why no one notified him, he was told “We sent you an email.” Evidently, American Airlines is completely unfamiliar with the concept of firewalls, spam filters, etc. Email is a wholly inadequate method of conveying important changes to travel itineraries, but I digress.

It was clear we weren’t going to make the 4:00 flight. We had to return the rental, check bags, wrestle a four-year-old, and get me through security at KCI without an ID (I lost it during the trip).

For the uninitiated, security at Kansas City International Airport is no fucking joke. We log considerable travel miles in our extended family, and we are unanimously agreed that KCI has the most hard-assed security operation of any airport we’ve ever flown out of. This is probably the only issue on which my family can achieve consensus. Getting through a regular airport without an ID would be hard enough. Despite assurances from the delightfully friendly people running both the KCI and the TSA Twitter accounts, I knew it would be damned difficult to get through security in Kansas City with no ID.

(Some of you frequent fliers – you know who you are – may be reading this and smugly thinking, “The abbreviation for Kansas City International Airport is MCI, not KCI.” You are correct. But no one who is actually from the KC area calls it MCI – we call it KCI, period.)

We pulled into a gas station to fill up the rental freighter. I then decided to park in one of the station’s spaces while my husband utilized his considerable technology arsenal to find a means of escape from KC to Chicago.

Because I was driving an absurdly enormous SUV, and I was sitting up higher than I’m used to, I failed to see a cone in the parking spot. In my defense, one could not accurately describe the cone as orange. The cone was past its glorious, conspicuous prime and was now a faded peach color. That said, I still should have seen it, and I didn’t, and I ran that fucker over. Just mowed it down. I tried to back up in a vain effort to free the sad cone, but that just made matters worse.

About the time I realized the cone was wedged up under the suburban attack vehicle, an employee came flying out of the service station. He lit into me about running over the cone.

I’m a Midwesterner. I am deeply uncomfortable with causing any sort of distress or damage to others or their property. Instinctively, I began to apologize, profusely and sincerely. The man was unmoved. He kept yelling at me about the cone. The incredulous, disgusted expression on his face said what little he left unspoken regarding his estimation of my intelligence.

I continued to apologize.

Then my four-year-old piped up from the back seat.

“Mommy, he is never going to say it’s okay.”

I sat back in my seat, caught off guard by the truth that just came out of my son’s mouth.

You know what, kid? You’re right. This man is never, ever going to accept my apologies and say, “It’s okay.” This is a lost cause.

By this time, the man had retrieved his cone. Seeing that it was still intact, I drove away, catching one final glimpse of him shaking his head at me in the rear-view mirror.

I’ve been replaying this incident in my head since it happened. I’ve come to the conclusion that my son was on to something. Sometimes, the other person is never going to say it’s okay. There are some situations, big and small, in which we never get closure.

I’m a big believer in the importance of apologies. If I’ve wronged someone, I believe it’s incumbent upon me to try and fix it. I can’t undo what’s already done, but I can learn and, with a little grace and luck, move on stronger and better than I was before. The same is true if the tables are turned, and I’m the “injured party,” for lack of a better term.

There are times, however, when a thing is so broken it can’t be fixed. Or the other person can’t meet me where I am, even if where I am is far beyond the halfway mark. How do I “get right” with myself and in my spirit when there is no closure? How do I know with certainty the other person is never going to say “It’s okay,” or that I am never going to be able to say “It’s okay” to someone else, and give myself permission to move forward when it means moving away?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll ask my kid.

International Incidents

Posted on by row20blog

A few years ago for our anniversary, my husband and I went to Munich, Prague and Budapest. Munich and Prague were relatively uneventful, except that I accidentally spent $75 for three bottles of OPI nail polish, which is readily available here in the United States and retails for about $8 per bottle. Pro tip: If you can’t do enough math in your head to convert the Czech koruna to the American dollar, the conversion app is your friend. As is the calculator. Or maybe you don’t really need the nail polish. But I digress.

We almost made it out of the Czech Republic without further mishap. Almost. We were taking a train from Prague to Budapest, and decided to stock up on provisions at the train station because we weren’t sure what the food situation would be on the train. I went to a shop while my husband waited with our (considerable) luggage some distance away. This was pre-motherhood, when vanity still trumped efficiency and I (over) packed for every possible contingency.

I took my items up to the check-out counter, and the man behind the register rang me up. I handed him my credit card, and he started shaking his head and saying something to me in Czech. I had no idea what he was trying to tell me, but whatever it was, he felt strongly about it. At this point, my husband was waving at me and motioning that we needed to go or we were going to miss our train. I gave him a signal that I hoped meant “Hang on a second, I’m trying to avert an international incident.”

After much gesticulating on both of our parts, I put it together that the man’s credit card machine was not working. So I started to put the food back. I had no interest in going to an ATM and withdrawing more Czech money, because I was going to be in the Czech Republic for another fifteen minutes, max. All I wanted to do was put the items back and be on my way.

My husband didn’t quite know what was going on, but he could see I was in a bit of a jam. Unfortunately, he was encumbered by a multitude of suitcases holding every piece of winter apparel I own, not to mention the toiletries, shoes, guidebooks and souvenirs.

He looked around and did what any rational person would do when one’s wife is being held against her will by an angry merchant in a Czech train station…he started hollering for the police. In Spanish. “Policia! Policia!” he yelled. Note: the word for police in Czech is “Policie.” File that away. You might need it someday.

He needn’t have hollered, because that shopkeeper was way ahead of him. The police were already en route to deal with me. The police arrived. Fortunately, they spoke English. They explained to me that the man rang up the sale, his credit card machine was not working, and his register wouldn’t allow him to cancel the sale. I tried calmly explaining to the police that I just wanted to put the items back on the shelf, get on the train, and get out of their country. I expected that last part to appeal to them enough to advocate for me with the angry shopkeeper, but it did not. They suggested I go to the ATM. I explained I had no need of more Czech korunas. And, if we’re being honest, even if that had not been the case, I wouldn’t have given this shopkeeper my money for anything in the world. As my three-year-old would say, he was not nice.

I continued to emphasize the point to the policemen that I was not trying to steal. This was not a criminal situation. It wasn’t my fault that his credit card machine was broken, nor was it my responsibility that his register wouldn’t allow him to void a sale. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably more like five minutes, the police acquiesced to my logic and let me go. I thanked them politely and got the hell out of there before anyone changed their minds.

Without a minute to spare, we boarded the train to Hungary, hungry and with no food. We’d been right about the food options on board – pickings were slim and overpriced, and credit cards were not accepted. We emptied every pocket between us. I hunted through my purse. We came up with about 10 Euros, and my husband went forth to forage. He returned with our paltry rations, and all was well. By then, we were just grateful not to be in custody.

The train was a sleeper train. This was, of course, my idea. I’d read Murder on the Orient Express and expected it to be like that minus, you know, the murder part.

The reality was this:

Train

(This isn’t my photo. It’s one I found on Google, but it’s almost exactly the same as our bunks.)

I climbed up to upper bunk to check things out, and then proceeded to climb back down instead of using the ladder because…me. On my way down, I got my rib cage stuck on the blue bar you see in the photos. My legs dangling in his face, my husband – unaware of my predicament – started trying to help by pulling on my feet, which caused the bar to dig deeper up under my rib cage. I was in excruciating pain, but also completely helpless with silent laughter. Clueless, my husband continued to pull on my legs, driving the bar ever further into my person. Making matters worse, he picked this moment in our marriage to try using words of encouragement.

So there I was, tears of pain and laughter streaming down my face, legs swinging wildly, gasping for breath, while he loudly cheered “Keep coming! Keep coming! Come on honey! You can do it! Keep coming!” And I was rendered even more helpless with laughter and the fervent hope that no one on the other side of our door spoke English well enough to…well, you know.

I did eventually make it down from the top bunk without serious bodily injury, and I used the ladder for all subsequent trips up and down from the bunk. We arrived in Budapest without further incident.

And with that, I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving and leave you with a parting thought: The key to surviving this life is being able to see the absurdity in any situation. That, and knowing what language to use when calling for police.

P.S. – This was also the trip during which my husband took a 10-hour bus tour of Bavarian castles with me. That is love.

Of Walks and Walks-Through

Posted on by row20blog

This time of year, more than any other, brings a certain sameness.

My husband works in politics, and as each election cycle reaches its frenetic conclusion, I brace myself for what’s coming. Every year, there is a very predictable pattern. In the months leading up to the Tuesday following the first Monday in November, he is going full-throttle. It’s hard to describe political life to those who don’t live it, but I think the most relatable comparison I’ve come up with is that it’s akin to tax season for an accountant, but with a lot more swear words. The week after the election is consumed with wrap-up work. That is followed by an all-too-brief period in which he sort of crashes.

Then, one day, he wakes up and looks around, suddenly realizing he has an abundance of free time on his hands. Organizing is like oxygen to him. He can’t breathe without it. So he starts looking around the house to see what needs to be done. Light bulbs get changed. Little repairs get made. All of this sounds great, right? No. It’s awful. It’s awful because I know what’s next…large-scale organization of the house and its occupants. He sends me emails and texts about doing what he calls a “walk-through” of the house. It is exactly what it sounds like. We walk through the house from top to bottom (damn you, finished basement and loft space), and review “what needs done.” Never does my husband’s total lack of acquaintance with the infinitive “to be” aggravate me more than in the month of November.

I am a stacker. A piler of papers. I make little hills of stuff I need to put away…eventually. This habit of mine drives my husband bat-shit crazy. During the height of the election cycle, I’m exhausted from working full-time and essentially flying solo with the human child and the unruly fur-children, but at least no one is asking me “What’s the deal with this stuff on top of the dresser?” Or on the table, on The Thing, in the entry, etc. By mid-November, he’s not only asking me what the deal is, but he expects me to actually do something about it and he’s really kind of a nag about the whole thing. In my head – and sometimes not so much in my head as out of my mouth – I’m like, “Oh, my God, leave me the hell alone!” I will do almost anything to avoid a walk-through. I put him off with various excuses, but resistance is futile. He is nothing if not tenacious.

This period of time coincides with open enrollment at my work. I will confess to lingering on the “Legal Services” option, wondering if this is the year the walk-through finally drives me to seek legal counsel in the form of a divorce attorney.

But just when I think I can’t take any more, the phase passes. And when it’s over, I survey the house. I will admit this to you, but never, ever to him: it really does look better. We’ve identified repairs and projects that need to be done in the coming year. I hate it while it’s happening, but shit gets done.

He then moves on to the next phase, which is comprised entirely of movies. He spends pretty much the whole month of December at the movie theater. After we had our son and formed some fledgling friendships with other parents we met through daycare, I received a few carefully-worded messages from people concerned that perhaps something had happened with my husband’s job, because they noticed on Facebook he was checking into the local movie theater during the daytime with considerable frequency. I always breathe a tiny sigh of relief when the movie phase starts, because it means the end of the walk-through phase is near.

The other thing that happens this time of year is our wedding anniversary. At first, it seemed really stupid that we scheduled our wedding for three weeks after Election Day. Now, I kind of like it. By the time our anniversary rolls around, the dust has settled enough for me to take stock of the situation, and feel good that we made it through another cycle and another year.

Our first trip to Europe was an anniversary trip. London, Paris, Barcelona, Andorra. I had visions of us strolling hand-in-hand through historic avenues, gazing upward and taking in the wonder of the architecture of the Old World. I was genuinely bewildered when that wasn’t at all what happened.

Things came to a head on our first day in Barcelona. We set out on foot on the cobblestone streets. I was giddy. He was confused.

Husband: “What are we doing?”
Me: “We’re walking.”
Husband: “Right, but what are we doing?”
Me: “We’re walking.”
Husband: “But why?”
Me: “What do you mean, why?”
Husband: “Where are we going? What is our destination?”
Me: “I don’t have a specific destination.”
Husband: “What is the point of walking without a destination?”
Me. “…”

In this moment, the fundamental difference between the two of us hit me like a ton of bricks. It seems I’d completely forgotten who my traveling companion actually was: “It’s not a meeting without an agenda.” “Some is not a number, soon is not a time.” This man does not meander. We may have been in a different setting, but we were still the same people.

We’d bickered our way through two of the world’s great cities already. Neither of us wanted to bicker our way through Barcelona as well. So we took it as an opportunity to learn an important lesson in managing expectations. The next day, we agreed he would stay at the hotel and do whatever he felt like doing while I went out and wandered to my heart’s content. Fortunately, I am happy in my own company and have no qualms about going out on my own. I had a lovely little excursion. In the afternoon, at the agreed-upon time, we met at a museum we both wanted to visit.  On that trip, the lesson learned was the importance of accepting differences as just that – differences, not faults or flaws – and to find common ground.

I’ve applied that lesson many, many times in the years since that trip, in a multitude of situations, in almost all of my close relationships.

We have to know when to recognize and honor our differences – as in the case of Barcelona – and when to challenge them – as in the case of the walk-through. I hate the walk-through, but that side of my husband’s personality challenges my tendency toward complacency. It’s uncomfortable and I chafe every damn time, but it’s good for me, just as it’s good for each of us to walk our own path a bit before coming back together.

Note: There was much discussion and back-and-forthing about pluralizing “walk-through.” “Walk-throughs” sounds better in my head than “walks-through” but I finally had to concede that the “mothers-in-law” and “attorneys general” rule applied here. Stupid grammar.